Preparation for Regret
by shakespond
Summary: Haymitch convinces an all-too-tired Effie to drink, surprised when she begrudgingly accepts. But when things get a little out of hand, Haymitch finds he's not as amused as he ought to be. Implied Hayffie.


"Oh, come on, Trinket," he growls, gripping the edge of my seat for support. "It's one drink."

I glance around the hall, finding myself surrounded by familiar faces. Cinna and Portia stand side by side, nibbling on meat from a silver platter. Peeta stands with his arm firmly around Katniss' waist, their faces painfully dull. Little attention is paid to Haymitch and I, as he persistently pushes a glass my way, yet I can't help but feel slightly wary concerning the offer.

"Very well," I say, begrudgingly accepting. "But only as the children are not around. And I have been working ever so hard around the clock." It feels as though I am trying to convince myself rather than Haymitch, but in a way, I suppose I am.

"Right," Haymitch says, seemingly surprised that I did not put up a further fight. "That was easy." Pursing my lips, I reach for the drink. The liquor is soft, cooling my throat as it makes its way down.

After insisting that Haymitch accompany me while I talk pleasantries with the others, he makes it clear that I am obliged to do the same. I try to convince him otherwise, but my attempts are futile. "Must I really do this?" I slur, trailing after him.

"Where are your manners?" he says, imitating my tone of voice. "Chaff's a good friend of mine." I roll my eyes as he slows down, allowing me time to catch up. Doing as he says, I make polite remarks when expected, and smile when a joke is made. This continues for a while. Every so often, Haymitch will pass back another beverage, and I will drink it without hesitation; the liquor has most certainly affected my inhibitions. I suspect Haymitch views it as a game, an enjoyable conquest to suffocate and nullify my senses. I, on the other hand, do not see it in such an amusing manner.

A few hours pass, and by the end of the night, I can barely stand upright. Gripping Haymitch's shirt, the fabric crumpling beneath my palms, I bury my face into his shoulder. Despite the alcohol he consumes, his figure is not bad, the muscle creating a rather solid pillow. My wig slips to the side, and I'm sure my makeup has smudged. He looks down at me, smirking as he says, "You okay there, Trinket?"

"Shut up," I mumble, trying my hardest to shoot him a glare. He only laughs.

Squinting my eyes, I try desperately to see the clock. The hands blur into one, the hour changing each second. For all I know, time could be nonexistent, unsubstantial. It probably is. "Haymitch," I call, irked to find that he has escaped my grip. I did not even realise he had left.

From behind, a hand grips mine. I turn, but the action leaves me lightheaded. "It's two in the morning," Haymitch states, eyes not meeting mine. "I'm feeling tired. Let's go."

I stare for a while, taking in his appearance. Yet no matter how much I do so, I cannot accept his word. At only two, Haymitch is not tired. Having been an escort with him for longer than I care to remember, I know for sure that he is never asleep until at least four. But my intoxicated mind can barely fathom why I'm still standing, let alone work its way through this conundrum, so I accept his reasoning. I nod slightly at his statement.

As we turn to leave, a rather plump-looking man stops us in our tracks, laughing merrily at a joke I did not hear. I am offered yet another drink, and although Haymitch begins to decline in my place, it is too late; I gulp back the liquid with a grin.

For the duration of the conversation, I babble on, half delirious. The man, whose name I never indevoured to know, attempts to cut in a few times, but my rambling does not cease. By the end, Haymitch is stifling a laugh, and the man is efficiently excusing himself. I stand confused, slightly offput by his rudeness.

"How long are you going to stand like that, Princess?" Haymitch chuckles. "The man's gone."

I turn, mouth agape, feeling stupid as I ask, "Why?"

Haymitch doesn't answer. Instead, he ushers me towards him, pushing me in the direction of the exit. My body feels heavy, and my legs are not compliant to the sudden change. As they collapse beneath me, Haymitch catches my arm- and just in time, too. Throwing it over his shoulder, and leaving it draped there, he swears under his breath. I barely notice.

"Wait," I mumble, refusing to move.

Haymitch stares at me incredulously. "What?" he snarls, desperate to keep moving- most likely wanting to escape my drunken state, only to return to his own.

I ignore his question, tightening my grip on his neck, reaching for my heels. Gripping the back of one shoe, I half-heartedly tug it off. My balance is then lost, and I fall back into Haymitch's chest. "Trinket," he growls, "If you do not move now, I will pick you up and drag you there myself."

With a sigh, I throw the shoe aside. The walk to the elevator is difficult, as my steps rise and fall six inches at a time. Eventually, I give in. Tiredness consuming every part of my being. Engulfing my mind.

I feel arms wrap around me: the hands rough, the movements gentle. I'm sure I can hear a voice talking, but I think it's mine. "God, you're light," Haymitch says. I don't give the comment recognition.

Before long, I feel the comfort of my covers beneath me. I assume Haymitch has placed me here, and I don't question how he found my keys. A blanket is draped over my figure, and the talking finally comes to a halt. Slowly slipping into unconsciousness, I faintly feel the remaining shoe leave my foot. I think I mumble a "thank you," but I can't be certain that the words were audible.

As the lock on my door clicks shut, I allow myself to relax, mentally preparing for the regret I shall feel tomorrow.


End file.
